Being The Change
by Milk and Glass
Summary: Meredith/Addison elevator scene, inspired by Addison's return in "Piece Of My Heart". Angsty, sweet, and gentle. A little one-shot for a friend of mine.


It's the elevator, but at least it isn't the on-call room

It's the elevator, but at least it isn't the on-call room. That would be too much of a cliché for words. Then again, it's not like your experiences with Addison have ever been original.

Her hair is darker, but it makes her eyes bluer. She keeps considering you, as if you're a rare specimen. You see her lips part to say something to you, then snap closed again. You get the impression that she's totally confused by being back. Well, she's not the only one.

Finally, you break the silence. "Addison, can I help you or something?"

She blinks twice; runs a hand through the soft, loose dark curls. "What? Oh, sorry. No, no."

Silence falls in the elevator. You awkwardly shuffle your feet, watching as the light glances off the silver decals on your running shoes. Addison, as usual, is wearing a flawless pair of designer shoes with three-inch heels.

"How do you stand on those all day?" You blurt out your question before you can stop yourself, and Addison's eyes crinkle with amusement.

"The heels?" She kicks out her feet a little. "I do a lot more sitting in L.A. No standing in surgery all day."

"Oh."

Silence falls again.

Finally, you raise your eyes to hers, and aren't surprised to see her looking right back at you.

"Grey."

"Addie, what do you want to say? What do you want me to tell you? Things have changed since you left. I've changed."

"You're lying. You're exactly the same." Her voice is cynical, but there's a hint of softness underneath, and you blink, staring at the floor again.

"No. But he is."

"Derek?"

"Christopher Shepherd."

Addison's mouth turns up at one corner and you suddenly giggle. "I can't believe after a year of fighting for him, once I had him, he just gave up. I fought and then I had issues, and I thought he loved me enough to help me."

She says nothing, and you fall silent, but then she clears her throat.

"I'm sorry."

"I needed you." The words come out – they snap out on the still air, and she throws her head up in surprise. Her face, however, is unchanged.

"Meredith, I – I needed a change. And you don't get to be mad about that. Because I was dealing with a lot, and you and Derek were everywhere I was, flaunting your relationship in my face –"

"We weren't meaning to flaunt it!"

"Well, you did. And it hurt. Because my marriage was over; I had a guy dogging my every footstep, and kissing you in elevators and fucking you in on-call rooms just . . . it was confusing. So you don't get to be mad."

"Well, I was mad – am mad. I missed you when you left." Your lower lip trembles a little and Addison stretches out a hand – a hand that used to be ivory and perfectly manicured, and now is tanned with only clear polish on the nails.

You stare at that, where her hand meets your arm; the spaces between her fingers and the air under the suction of her palm, and your other hand, rough from surgical soap and constant immersion in water; cut from the slip of a scalpel on practice dummies and nails bitten to the quick – your other hand covers the softness on your arm.

She sighs. "I miss the way you used to laugh. And your smile."

"Addie." Her eyes meet yours, and you're not surprised to see they're full of tears. "Ah." Your sigh releases the tension, and her face softens.

"I miss the way your arms felt around me."

"I miss that, too."

"Why'd you leave." It's not even a question – it comes out on a stream of sighing breath, and she puts a hand under your cheek.

When she kisses you, you feel a part of you falling away – your knees weaken a little, but her hand supports the small of your back while her tongue sneaks through your lips. And it's soft and sweet and when you open your eyes afterwards, there are tears on both your cheeks.

She touches one.

"Because I had to be the change that I wanted to see in my life."

"That's not an excuse," you choke a bit.

She pulls you close and you rest your head on the familiar rough white coat; you feel the warmth of the notes of her perfume and the soft sweetness of her hair, and you cling to her, tightly, until she detaches to raise your eyes to hers.

"Stay," you whisper.

And then, the elevator stops.


End file.
